


You're So Warm

by misscai



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Injury, Possible Spoilers, what better matchmaker than the mirelurk queen?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:13:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misscai/pseuds/misscai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>F!Sole Survivor Moira gets injured in the attack on the Castle, and Danse is less than pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're So Warm

She looked awful, if Danse was being honest. Her back was splattered with acid burns, the skin angry, red, and blistering. Her curled copper hair had been singed—Piper had carefully styled the ruined mess into an acceptable pixie cut. There wasn't much they could do for the wounds. Hancock had relinquished some of his Med-X to help with the pain, but with the exception of purified water and some shoddy poultice that the odd fortune-teller woman had mixed up, it was a waiting game until Moira healed on her own.

If she had just _listened_ to him, dammit! He had told her that she would want power armor when she went to clear out the Castle with Garvey and the Minutemen, but no. No, she insisted that her typical leather-and-scrap-metal getup would be perfectly fine. And when he saw her from across the field, she was using one of her shitty 10mm pistols. _Damn_ it!

Danse sat down with a frustrated sigh, the pre-war metal chair creaking in protest. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, irritated at the stubble there. Then irritated at how long his hair had gotten. Irritated by the roughness of his shirt.

“Quit scowling,” A voice murmured, and he could hear the smile in it. “You'll get wrinkles.”

“Such a lack of respect for your commanding officer,” He quipped back. Moira shifted her arm, wincing all the while, until she could press her fingertips to her temple in a salute.

“Paladin.”

“You're so...” He shook his head, looking away with a slight coughing laugh. She smiled and tried to sit up, but the raw skin on her back ached and pulled a hiss from her lips. Danse was immediately crouched beside her, a hand hovering over her shoulder but not touching. “Don't move, soldier. You're, uh... exposed.”

“Oh.” Moira's cheeks colored as she realized the truth of his words—her entire torso was bare, her modesty protected only by the fact that she was lying on her stomach. But it was starting to hurt her neck to look at him... “C'mere.” She patted the sleeping bag beside her, the dingy orange fabric exactly matching her own. He glanced furtively over his shoulder at the door of her wooden shack.

“Are you—”

“Nobody comes in here except Dogmeat,” She assured him. Danse heaved a long-suffering sigh, toeing off his boots and lying on his side next to her. “Hi.”

“Hi,” He chuckled, unable to resist the appeal of tucking a newly-short strand of hair behind her ear. Moira's brow wrinkled at the reminder, but Danse offered a half-smile. “It suits you.” Watching her face for any hesitation, Danse slowly slipped his entire hand into the copper locks, his palm cupping the back of her head as his fingers massaged her scalp. She closed her eyes and relaxed under his ministrations, giving Danse the confidence to move closer until their shoulders touched. “Is this acceptable?”

“It's outstanding,” She replied, mocking his constant use of the word and earning another chuckle for her effort. With careful movements Moira wriggled towards him, pressing her forehead and the tip of her nose against his. He knew this habit, and held his breath in preparation for whatever soft confession came next. “I'm glad you're here, Danse.”

“Moira,” He breathed, suddenly and wholly overwhelmed with warmth that was no doubt glowing red on his cheeks. His hand slid down from her hair to cup her jaw, his lips pressing to hers. She was soft and sweet and Danse rapidly got lost in the sensation that this woman, this extraordinary woman, loved him back. He kissed a million promises, swearing loyalty, pledging honesty, vowing eternity to her, always and only to her.

When he pulled away, it was only for lack of oxygen. Moira watched him, hazel eyes smiling and cheeks alight with a blush. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck, thumb stroking the soft, dark hairs at the nape.

“My handsome man,” She murmured, almost inaudibly. Danse just marveled at her as she trailed gentle fingertips across his jawline, then down the bridge of his nose, then on the darkened patches of skin beneath his eyes. Concern flickered across her face. “You look tired.”

“Nothing that I can't handle.” She wasn't having it. Moira nudged his shoulder until he rolled onto his back, then she extended his arm and pillowed her head on his bicep. His arm would go to sleep, but Danse couldn't find it in him to care. Instead he just reached out with his free hand, linking his fingers with hers and drawing her arm across his chest. Moira smiled against his skin, nuzzling in closer. Danse pressed another kiss to her forehead.

“You're so warm,” She mumbled, and Danse laughed quietly, tightening his grip on her hand. They weren't the three words he so wanted to hear, but in her tender, fond tone, they sounded exactly the same.


End file.
